


Destroyer

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Degradation, Dom/sub, F/M, Light Bondage, No Aftercare, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation, alcohol mention, based on real events/maybe this is just my sex life, but mainly i wrote this for me so, cape daddy sans cape, damn that man is a silver fox, he's a petty bitch, i'm sorry about that, reader is not gender neutral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9002131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The evening after Orson Krennic tests his creation - the evening after his control is snatched away - he calls for his subordinate officer.This hasn't been beta'd, I apologise. Shameless smut.





	

Sometimes he’s nice. Considerate, even. He calls for you in the early evening, takes your coat at the door and kisses you on the cheek, asks some inane question about work before whisking you in through the foyer. He’d been like this a lot recently, chatty, charming, full of excitement and ever-changing grandiose plans. The last time you were together, a few weeks ago, he told you, the cleaning droid spent six hours getting champagne stains out of the rug.

* * *

This isn’t one of those times.

You press your palm to the reader, entering as quietly as possible. He’d sent for you out of normal hours, leaving you no time to prepare in advance. He was not a patient man.

When you cross the threshold to his entertaining room – appointed beautifully in crisp imperial white and reds, with only the occasional splash of black – you set your eyes on him, facing away from you. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, and a filled, squat glass. You take it neat, he always remembers.

His own is in his hand, he’s taking a long, slow sip as he stares out into blank space. You pick up the glass, hoping the slight noise will alert him, make him turn to you. It doesn’t.

“Director Krennic?”

He glances back at you, only a half-hearted turn of the head, before returning to his solitary contemplation. You stay frozen on the spot, knowing something is wrong, but not what.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to work at something for decades – to devote your entire life to it – only to have it snatched away?”

“No.”

“They didn’t believe me when I told them what it could do. They didn’t believe me and now they want to take it away.” He sounded angry, but more than that, he sounded heartbroken.

Krennic loved his work, more than he could ever love any person, no matter how close. You knew he liked you best when you stroked his ego, when you curled up to his side in bed with one lean arm draped over your shoulders and let him talk for hours on end about his plans, his projects, his genius.

He really was genius, you knew that. But it wasn’t enough for just you to know.

“Take what away?”

“That machine – that beautiful machine – is supposed to be mine. I conceived of it, I recruited the galaxy’s brightest, I secured funding from ever dwindling supplies, and for nothing?”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” you say softly after a long pause. Carefully, you set down the still-full glass, making your way towards him.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” you repeat, reaching out to put one hand on his shoulder, “Orson-“

“No.” It’s immediate, sharp, and unquestionable. The harshness of it makes you jolt back. “Not Orson tonight.”

“I’m sorry.”

He’s never thrown a drink in your face before, but doesn’t hesitate. The sting of sharp whiskey bring tears to your eyes, your vision goes blurry under streaking mascara.

“What was that?” With two fingers he places the now-empty glass onto the table with a heavy thud.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

His lips slack from a grimace to a smug grin as he takes two footsteps to close the distance between you. He cups your cheek in one hand, wiping away the drops of whiskey with his thumb before ever-so-gently pressing his lips to yours.

“Good girl.”

His raised hand falls away from your cheek. He slaps you, hard enough to leave your ears ringing.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you going to behave tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll see about that. Clean that mess off your face and meet me in the bedroom. If I’m kept waiting, you will be punished.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod and turn away, down the corridor to his refresher. It’s decadent in the extreme, not that you have time to appreciate it tonight. In the wall mirror you assess damage, rubbing away the smudged eyeliner and mascara, blotting the liquor off your cheeks and chin.

He’s sat at the edge of the bed, head resting in his hands, when you walk in.  He commands you without looking up.

“Take the dress off.”

You do, undoing the string of fastenings and letting it fall at your feet. You don’t look back at him until you’ve folded the garment over the back of a chair – neatly, everything is always neat with him. He’s staring back at you, a gaze equal parts calculating and predatory.

He likes this set. Black silk and satin, stockings so sheer they run as soon as you look at them, steel clips that he snaps against your thighs when he’s railing you from behind. Nothing else. It’s basic in design but impeccable in material; no one could accuse Orson Krennic of tastelessness.

“Do you know what you look like?” he asks after a while, his head tilted slightly to the side.

He answers for you. “A pathetic little slut. Ready to drop everything, trou included, to have her superior’s cock buried deep in her filthy little cunt. Is that right?”

Part of you wanted to protest. _You sent for me. You wanted me here_.

“Well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

“I look like a pathetic little slut, sir.”

“Good girl. Now sit down,” he calls you over with two fingers before patting the place nearest him on the bed.

His hand – palm soft, fingers long – runs up and down your thigh as he continues, lost in his little game.

“You do know the difference between a whore and a slut, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t try to get clever with me. It won’t end well for you. The difference is,” he trails one finger up your body, resting at the hollow of your throat, “a whore gets paid. A slut does it because she’s a depraved little bitch. You like me using you.”

It’s not a question.

“You like doing everything I tell you, my dirty little slut. You love it, my precious, stupid girl.”

All the while he’s groping you over your bra, pulling the straps tight against your skin and squeezing harshly at the flesh beneath before he loses his patience, ripping it down til your breasts spill out of the cups. And then he grabs you by the throat.

Without resisting, you let him position you: lying face down, legs wide apart. You know better than to turn to look at him, but you feel his weight leave the bed, hear his bare feet pad across the floor.

He opens a drawer.

“Must be nice, only having to think with the slit between your legs.” You hear the clink of metal and something hits your calf.

“Not all of us have that luxury,” he hisses from behind you. He grabs your ankle with one hand, wrapping the leather-lined cuff around it – loose, just enough to restrain. Then the next, wide apart, the chain taut and forcing your thighs open. It’s quick work, and only a few more seconds until you feel him slither up the bed towards you.

You wince as his hand comes down hard on your ass, still a little sore from your last dalliance. You hear him scoff at you from behind, but don’t see his face. You know what it looks like, though: that haphazard smirk is the only shambolic thing about him, the rest – personality, appearance, creations – all immaculate.

“If that hurt, I’d hate to see what you think of this,” he says, before landing another smack. He’s right: it stings. You can’t help but whimper, just for a moment, just under your breath, but he hears it.

He’s only encouraged, chuckling as he spanks you nearly raw, until you’re sobbing and squirming underneath him, crying out and moaning in turn.

“You want me to stop?” he asks at long last, his thumb rubbing circles into the too-tender flesh.

“Yes, sir,” you answer immediately, “please.”

“Good girl,” he coos at you, almost sweet. His thumb trails down the curve of your ass, running a line down to your clit.

“You’re dripping wet, my dear. How embarrassing for you,” he sounds as casual as though talking about the weather as he shoves three fingers into you.

“No resistance at all. This cunt is desperate to be filled.”

You feel his arm – bare, he must have stripped his shirt off when he’d gotten the cuffs – wrap around your waist as he climbs on top of you, knees either side of your hips. You feel his cock, stiff and already leaking precum if the smear on your thigh is anything to go by, probing you.

He’s always a stretch going in, the head of his cock almost as thick as the shaft. You bite your lip to keep from whining at the sensation: an ounce of pain, a pound of pleasure, being filled so completely.

His hand, pausing to claw at your breast, snakes up to your throat again, his chest rests against your back. You wait, trepidatious, silently willing him to move.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks, still fully sheathed. 

“Please, sir. Please fuck me. I need it.”

“I know you do,” he’s so sure of himself. His hips grind against you as he moves deeper, before withdrawing.

The first thrust is hard, deep, and merciless. This is not for you, and he makes sure you know it, ramming into you fast and relentless, but _fuck,_ it feels so good to feel him deep inside you, and _fuck,_ it’s been so long since he last let you cum, and _fuck_ , he’s hitting a spot just right. You feel yourself getting close. He knows, he always does.

“Cum for me,” he’s growling at you, his combed hair falling in strands against your neck, “cum for me already, you fucking slut. Cum for your director.”

That’s it. He knows how much it turns you on: to be used and abused by the man who controls your career, your livelihood, your entire future. He knows that reminding you how far beneath him you are – and how he’s still here, material, living flesh, fucking you like an animal, coming completely undone.

“Sir!” you nearly scream as you cum, your cunt pulsing and clenching around his cock. It’s enough to take him over the edge.

“Yes,” he grunts into your ear, each word spoken through gritted teeth as he slams into you, “my perfect little slut.” His hips jerk and his lips rest on shoulder, speaking into the skin.

“Perfect,” he breathes in sharply –

“and,” he pulls out almost completely –

“mine,” he rams his full length back into you, his hipbones digging into your skin as he comes, collapsing on top of you in a sweaty heap.

You stay like that for a few moments longer, neither wanting to be the first to move. He gives in, rolling away and swinging his feet over the bedside, sitting with hunched shoulders. You sit up, too, reaching down to undo your restraints.

“Thank you. I needed that.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll let you know. You can see yourself out.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you enjoyed, I have a huge soft spot for an ineffectual villain with great hair a n d a c a p e  
> If you'd like to request more krennic/reader smut please do at my tumblr: starkillainmanila.tumblr.com; otherwise I will just be writing my sex life but with a cape


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